


Six Swords

by Rangetsu_Heron



Category: Tales of Berseria
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Drama, Gen, I'm really mean to Rokurou I'm sorry, Introspection, Post-Game, Suicidal Thoughts, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26231611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rangetsu_Heron/pseuds/Rangetsu_Heron
Summary: As Rokurou begins his sentence on Titania Island, he reflects on what brought him to this point, and why so much rage festers in his heart - completely unaware that his life is about to take a whole new turn. A ton of foreshadowing, a sprinkling of references, and a whole lot of Rokurou angst.
Relationships: Eizen & Rokurou Rangetsu, Rokurou Rangetsu & Shigure Rangetsu
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	Six Swords

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to keep this as canon as I can (there's been a lot of rewatching of skits and cutscenes!), and get the balance between the intense ball of emotion that human Rokurou must've been, and the chillax daemon we know and love. It's my first Berseria fic, so hopefully I get it just about right.
> 
> Also, there's one slightly gory bit, and I apologize in advance...

As the prisoner was escorted down the corridor towards the cell that was going to be his home for the rest of his life, the jeers of fellow inmates ringing in his ears and a firm hand on the back of his neck forcing his head down to look at his own shuffling feet, he felt like laughing.

After all, it was pretty funny how you could completely screw up your own life with four words. Four simple little words, which he’d never had any choice in saying.

_Yes, master. Yes, brother._

The latter had been the refrain of his entire childhood - in fact, the whole of his nineteen years. The privilege of being the sixth and youngest.

_Rokurou, fetch me some water. Yes, brother!_

_Rokurou, clean that toilet until it shines. Yes, brother!_

_Rokurou, fetch your sword and practise against me. Yes, brother!_

He supposed that his childhood had been different compared to anyone else’s - but if he was being honest, he didn’t really know what a usual childhood would be like. The nearest village had been miles away, and he’d never had time to visit anyway. All he knew was life as it had been dictated in the Rangetsu estate, under the watchful eye of his mother, the Shigure.

Wake up at dawn. Go to the courtyard with his brothers, and practise swordplay. Clean up. Have a light breakfast. Do some studies, at the six small desks set up in a side room. Then sword practise again, for the rest of the day, until the sun went down.

And every time he went out there armed with a bamboo cane, or wooden practise swords, Ichirou would be waiting with a wooden greatsword and a grin.

Ichirou was nine years his senior, and for the life of him, Rokurou couldn’t understand why his mother would pit oldest against youngest, twice a day, every day. He still remembered his first practise session, toddling out into the courtyard with a short piece of bamboo cane, and being thrashed - almost quite literally - by his nearly-teenage brother.

He’d sat on the cold grey flagstones as everyone else went inside, covered in burning welts, and wailed his heart out. He’d sobbed and cried until his face was coated in tears, and until he’d realised that no-one was coming to help him or soothe him. It had been Ichirou himself who’d eventually popped his head around the doorframe.

“Yo, Rokurou! Keep it down if you’re going to cry all night. We’re trying to eat in here!”

He hadn’t disappeared back, though. He’d stood and watched as Rokurou picked himself off the floor, wiped a sleeve over his grubby face, and trailed inside to get his serving. His mother had given him a tiny portion of stew, telling him that latecomers couldn’t expect a full serving, and he’d sat on a hard wooden bench which made the welts hurt even more.

It had been the first of many lessons that he never forgot.

Twice a day for ten years, Rokurou fought Ichirou, and lost every time. Sometimes Ichirou would let him attack with his dual practise swords, intently studying Rokurou’s every move and countering them with his greatsword, before swatting him to the ground. Sometimes Ichirou would go straight for an attack, seeing how his youngest brother attempted to counter it, and finding ways to slip his sword past the defence.

Sometimes Nirou and Sanrou, Shirou and Gorou, would stop what they were practicing and watch, in awe of their eldest brother. And on those occasions, Ichirou would be devastatingly ruthless.

“Fight harder, Rokurou!” Ichirou’s voice would almost sing-song in Rokurou’s ears as he picked himself off the ground, embarrassed at having to go through this yet again and be the only Rangetsu with zero wins to his name. He could see Ichirou’s smile without even having to look at him; it was emblazoned in his mind. “You’re never going to provide any challenge for me at this rate. I’ll have to train against the village milkmaid instead.”

And he’d lose his temper and throw himself into it, fighting as hard as he could, until Ichirou decided that it was over. Sometimes he’d find a sword suddenly at his throat, or feel a fast foot instantly curl around his ankle and knock him onto his back. His brothers would cheer, while he just felt the dull sting of new bruises and light cuts, slowly throbbing into his awareness.

Ichirou would always grin down at him, but offer a hand.

“Keep trying, kiddo.”

Rokurou would accept the proffered hand, and be hoisted up. Then he’d loyally trail after Ichirou for their serving of soba noodles in broth. 

Things changed as he got older. One by one, his brothers fulfilled the role they were born for, and became the trusted swords of the Rangetsu liege lord. Their ancestor had owed the ancestor of Lord Capalus an eternal debt, and it would be repaid in the service of his descendants, their life’s course plotted out before they were even born. 

Except, one by one, it was repaid in blood.

Sanrou died first, and Rokurou clearly remembered his mother informing him that his brother had fallen honourably in combat, her eyes clear and dry. It had been the same when Nirou and Gorou died together, surrounded by the army of Lord Capalus’ enemy, and when Shirou had given his life by blocking a blade intended for the lord with his body.

Each time, he’d simply nodded. His brothers had been following the family creed, and had died with their swords in their hands. And as his mother had taught him when he was very young, “following a creed isn’t always pleasant, but you must do what must be done.”

Only Ichirou survived, second only to the Shigure herself in the Count’s trust, and his survival was never in question. He occasionally came back to the estate when he wasn’t busy with his duties, and Rokurou would be expected to stop his own greatsword training, and pick up the short swords once again. The result was never any different from when he’d been a child, and Rokurou’s teenage pride had been deflated time and again. 

On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, the day on which he himself would formally enter the service of Lord Capalus, Rokurou had been awoken by the sounds of fighting, of metal clashing against metal. That wasn’t anything unusual, but an ear as battle-trained as his knew the difference between training, and a fight to the death.

He also knew the sound of his mother’s voice, suddenly crying out in anguish.

He’d grabbed his Stormhowl from where it was propped against his bed, charging across the hardwood floors in his underwear with unbound long hair flowing behind him, out into the courtyard to cut down whichever enemy of their lord had decided to attack them at dawn, like cowards.

Then he’d stopped, rooted to the spot even as a cry escaped his lips, as he saw Ichirou pulling his own Stormhowl from their mother’s body. 

He’d always known that this day would come, had always known who the players would be - who else but Ichirou? It was only a surprise that he’d waited this long. But unlike the deaths of his brothers, it still came as a shock to see the Shigure - his mother - dead on the ground, with her lifeblood spilling out across the flagstones. He felt sick, utterly sick, even if his clan’s tradition dictated that this was the way it should be.

Ichirou was panting, his clothing torn and bloodied, and seemed somewhat in shock himself as he laid his copy of Stormhowl down on the ground, and picked up the real thing from where it lay next to their mother’s hand. The beautiful, bloodied black and gold sword, the thing that he and all his brothers secretly coveted from the day they were given their copies.

Rokurou could barely take his eyes off it, aware that his eyes were as wide as saucers, as Ichirou turned to face him.

There was a momentary troubled look on Ichirou’s face, before it set in a new, hard determination, as if a decision had been made in the blink of an eye. Whatever that decision was, Rokurou could already tell that it was something to do with him, and that he didn’t like it.

“Ichirou-” he started.

His brother walked over to him, stride determined, one of his boots leaving bloody marks on the weathered grey stone. Then Rokurou found Stormhowl, still dripping with his brother’s blood, leveled at his own chest.

“You’ll call me Shigure now.”

He’d changed in an instant. Ichirou had mocked him, humiliated him, cut him, and bullied him all the way through his childhood. But he’d never looked at him like this before, with a blaze in his amber eyes.

He hadn’t answered quickly enough for his brother’s liking. The sword came forward again, until the very tip rested against Rokurou’s bare chest, even the lightest contact enough to draw a trickle of blood.

“You’ll call me Shigure, or you’ll die right here.”

It was a demand, from the golden first child to the sixth son. The leftover, the afterthought, who was so low down that his family had seemingly never even entertained the notion of him taking the leadership of the clan himself. The sixth, who was only good for practising against. The sixth, who would never own Stormhowl, never lead the clan, and never, ever be named as Shigure.

He was there to follow orders, and to be used as a tool.

Rokurou felt his own gaze narrow and harden. Who was Ichirou - who was _anyone_ \- to tell him what he could do?

It would have to wait. But the sword, the title, and the leadership: suddenly he wanted them more than anything in the world. He would show his last remaining relative what he could do, that he was more than a useful tool, and he would pay back every practise loss, every cut, and every bruise, with interest.

“Yes… brother.”

Shigure looked at him, head slightly tilted. He’d noticed his choice of words. Of course he’d noticed.

“Ooh, a bit of insolence! I like it! It suits you, _Rokurou._ ”

The sword dropped suddenly; Rokurou tried not to flinch as it scored lightly through his skin. Shigure stepped forward again, until they were face to face, and Rokurou could see every fleck and splatter of dried blood.

“Try to get a little less emotional and a little more vicious, baby bro. One day, you might even have the stones to do this yourself.”

“Might be closer than you think, Shigure.” He delivered the name through gritted teeth, but made sure he looked his brother right in the eyes.

That damn grin again. Then Shigure lifted his hand to Rokurou’s face, to the bangs which habitually covered his right eye, lifting the hair aside almost in a mockery of tenderness.

“Good boy”, he smiled, returning the look right back into both of his eyes like a dagger.

***

You’re certain that the information you have received on Shigure is correct?”

The marble tiles beneath Rokurou’s knee, shielded only by his thin hakama, were nothing if not uncomfortable. But he’d endured far worse in his life, and recently he’d been bent on one knee so often in this stateroom that he suspected that he was beginning to make a dent. Shigure was meant to be the one at beck and call to their liege lord; the fact that he couldn’t be bothered and sent Rokurou to do Count Capalus’ “crappy jobs” was an implied slight that Rokurou was more than happy to take advantage of. 

“Yes, master. I’ve questioned various men close to Shigure, and confirmed with them that he intends to mount an insurrection against you as soon as he can. I have transcripts if you wish to read them.”

He sincerely hoped that the Count took him up on his offer; it had taken him ages to write them all out, with a tedious amount of searching his vocabulary for a different character voice on each.

“That won’t be necessary.” The Count made a waving gesture, and Rokurou couldn’t help a slight hint of annoyance. “I trust you more than anyone to give me the correct information - I know the loyalty which the Rangetsu hold towards their clan, and that honour is everything to you. You would not accuse your brother, and your Shigure, of such a crime if it were not true.”

Rokurou tried to ignore the black, slithering sensation in the pit of his belly. “I would not, my lord. Our honour would not allow it.”

The Count stood up. “Then I will take your words as truth, Shirou-”

“Um… I’m Rokurou, my lord.”

The fussy little man made the dismissive waving gesture again. “Rokurou. I appoint you as my sword, and give you permission to execute the head of your clan. You will find your brother, and bring me his body. Then you may take your place as Shigure, and continue your clan’s service to me.”

The corner of Rokurou’s mouth lifted in a smile. “I accept, my lo-”

“However.” The Count stepped forward in his ceremonial armour, past the watching eyes of his courtiers, until he stood right in front of his kneeling servant. “I will send some of my men with you to bear witness. I will not tolerate failure, nor being seen as having a weak sword arm. The sole reason you were born was to be a weapon, one wielded by my family. The sixth sword in my armory; nothing more. If you fail, you will have failed in your only purpose, and I’ll make sure that you’re punished appropriately.”

The words stung Rokurou, as much as they caused a slight unsettling feeling to go through him. He was well aware of the Count’s reputation for cruelty - he had witnessed it with his own eyes over his three years in service, and he’d personally murdered people on the Count’s command. He’d had people beg him for their life; people whose only crime was to slight Count Capalus in some tiny way.

But it was probably irrelevant: if he failed in this task, he doubted that Shigure would leave him alive. He would be successful, or he would die on Stormhowl, just as his mother had.

“I won’t fail, my lord.”

***

Rokurou was barely aware of the men at his back throughout the short journey to the Rangetsu estate. Snippets of conversation would occasionally break into his consciousness - someone’s sister getting married, gossip about the Count’s head of staff, something about a Scarlet Night in a week’s time - but his mind was completely consumed by what lay ahead of him.

Shigure would have Stormhowl in hand. If he decided to attack Rokurou, he would most likely make a quick move to reposition, to deny the reach of Rokurou’s own Stormhowl. He would force him to block, to turn his greatsword sideways, to keep him on the defensive. From there, he would go into one of three form patterns, and Rokurou had a plan for each one. If there was one thing he was practised in, it was counter-attacking his brother.

If he decided to defend first, Shigure’s Stormhowl would be the one to turn, and Rokurou would have to find a way past whilst keeping out of a greatsword’s range. His brother was five centimetres taller than him, at his best estimate, and he knew that Shigure would make even that tiny advantage in reach count.

He could read Shigure’s moves - he’d had a lifetime of watching them. His body was covered in scars left by his brother’s swords over the years, and each one of them had taught him a new move, a lesson, a reminder for the future. He could block Shigure, unless it was for too long, and he had been - and still was - the best of the Rangetsu at dodging.

His hair was tied back firmly, so it couldn’t impede him in battle, though his untameable bangs brushed over his face as usual. His Stormhowl was on his back, ready to repay debts incurred. 

He was going to do this. By the end of this night, his brother would be dead, and he would take the title of Shigure. It was what he had been born to do. And no one would ever dismiss him as a mere tool again.

The Rangetsu estate hove into view. It had been a while since his last practise match against Shigure. Rokurou had fought one thousand and nine matches against him, and never won once. All he needed was one victory, tonight, and he would have everything he’d ever wanted. Perhaps he would even make his mother proud for once, if she were watching down somewhere. 

He could feel his eyes, as amber as Shigure’s, burning and focusing on the house until he felt like the stones would crumble. His breaths had become shallow, and he had to force them to return to normal.

“Wait here.” They were the first words he’d spoken to Capalus’s men, and to their credit, they stopped. “You can wait here at the end of the path. This is something I need to do in private.”

“We were sent here as witnesses,” one of the six spoke up, a formless voice coming from a suit of armour. “Under the direct orders of Count Capalus.”

“There’s only one path in and out of the estate, and you can see the house from here,” Rokurou replied, still not taking his gaze off the building where his brother resided. “If you see Shigure come back to the house, then you can come and witness my body afterwards. But I’ll be the one coming back down the path.”

They seemed uncertain, but acquiesced, and Rokurou continued alone.

Walking into the estate, into the all-too familiar courtyard, felt strange. This was Shigure’s home now, and no longer his. But he would reclaim it. He would reclaim a lot of things tonight, including his own, wounded sense of self-worth.

_“Shigure!”_

He bellowed his brother’s name into the night air. Nothing else was needed.

A cricket chirped back at him.

The lights in the main house were on, but Shigure clearly wasn’t hurrying himself to answer his call. In fact, as the minutes stretched on, Rokurou began to feel somewhat ridiculous, standing there in his best kimono, ready for battle, with an opponent who wasn’t there.

He opened his mouth and drew breath to shout again, just as the door opened. The shout died in his throat. 

Shigure lounged against the doorframe, shrugging on the tiny excuse for a shirt he liked to wear.

“Rokurou! I thought I recognised that howling noise. Look man, if you need a bed for the night, you’re going to have to take one of the rooms in the guest wing.” He stuck a thumb back over his shoulder, and winked. “Got company, of the lady kind. Whole house is gonna be... noisy.”

A sheet of anger went through Rokurou, and he gritted his teeth. “I have come as an envoy of Count Capalus-”

“Yeah? What’s that old fart got to say?”

“That you are sentenced to death.” Rokurou noted, with complete satisfaction, that his words actually shut his brother up for a moment. “That you are a traitor, plotting to overthrow him, and that our clan’s honour can only be restored with your death.”

Shigure was silent a moment longer. “And he sent you to do it?”

“Yes.” Rokurou moved fluidly into a fighting stance, displaying his intent. “I’ve been training hard for this day, brother. I’ve been preparing for three years.”

He expected that to catch Shigure off-guard; possibly not causing fear, but perhaps a measure of respect, or uncertainty. His brother had no idea what he’d been up to for the last three years: how hard he’d trained, which moves he’d developed, which forms he’d mastered. He wanted, and needed, to see that in Shigure’s eyes.

Instead, he got that damned, infernal grin.

“Oh, this is going to be downright cute. Okay little brother, you get to challenge me.”

Rokurou expected him to turn back into the house, to fetch Stormhowl from wherever he kept it, but instead Shigure sauntered forwards, towards the locker where they had stored their practise weapons ever since Rokurou could remember.

“What are you doing?” he asked, hating the confusion he could hear in his own voice.

“Getting the short swords.” Shigure took the weapons out of the antique locker, before closing it again. “You remember how it works in Rangetsu martial artes, right Rokurou? We use short swords to help train those using greatswords. Or have you spent so much time being Capalus’s dog that you’ve forgotten?”

 _“Stop mocking me!”_ His yell burst out of his throat, and he drew his Stormhowl in one stroke, anger making the sword tremble in his hands.

“Wow bro, so intense.” Shigure twirled a short sword in each hand. “What happened to that easygoing, happy-go-lucky kid I watched grow up?”

“I’m still that person,” Rokurou whispered, feeling his palms sweat on the sword’s hilt. “But not when it comes to you.”

“Ouch. So, you want to do this? Last chance to back down.”

Rokurou raised his Stormhowl to eye level, pointing the tip at Shigure, trying to push all his emotions back into silence.

“I won’t back down. Ever.”

“Fine. Let's have a workout!” And Shigure launched himself without warning.

All of the scenarios that had run through Rokurou’s mind for the past three years, all the training sessions he’d prepared, immediately went out of the window. He’d taken it for granted that this would be a battle of greatsword versus greatsword, and he suddenly found himself defending against a pair of weapons he was better used to attacking with.

He fended Shigure off, managing to keep him at a greatsword’s length away, before coming into his own attack. Metal clashed against metal, sparks flying, and Rokurou had to work doubly hard to keep his speed the same as his brother’s. They both moved around the courtyard at pace, their footwork sure. He had to keep on the offensive, and not allow any gaps in his defence. Otherwise Shigure would dart in, and end his life before he even saw the weapon coming.

He slashed with all his might, crying out his rage, trying to force Shigure back. Occasionally a shorter blade would flash through his guard, and he’d feel a bite of pain, but he bit the inside of his lip until it bled and pushed on. 

He was aware of nothing but the blades flashing in his vision, noting, meeting, anticipating them. His focus shrank; his world became the two of them, and nothing else. He lost track of time; he had no idea how long they’d been at it.

There was a sudden lull; the two of them broke apart for a moment. Rokurou gasped for breath, composing himself, suddenly feeling the burn of new wounds all over his arms, chest and legs. He had to push his ink-black hair over his shoulder; it had come loose.

“Warmed up yet?”

He looked up at Shigure - and saw him standing tall yet relaxed, not a single drop of blood marring his skin or white clothes.

 _Not even once?_ Rokurou’s inner voice was incredulous, even to his own mind. _I haven’t even touched him once?_

Shigure laughed.

And a red mist descended.

 _“I’m going to kill you!”_

He threw himself at Shigure, slashing his Stormhowl with all his might, screaming unintelligible sounds which sounded half-inhuman. He didn’t even see Shigure anymore; all he saw were those two practise swords, blocking his way at every turn, until it felt like the metal itself was mocking him too. He didn’t even notice the sudden downpour of rain which suddenly descended on them, turning his kimono and hair into one sodden mass. All he knew was the constant hacking, slashing, and chopping, his body whirling with the motion. 

A sudden yelp of pain from his own lungs brought him to a stop, and he looked down to see a sizable puncture wound in his left forearm, his clothes torn and being stained red with blood. He could still hold his Stormhowl, but it hurt like crazy.

“Yeah, it was fun for a while. But I’m bored now.”

Rokurou looked up at his brother, and felt his eyes widen with true fear. Shigure still hadn’t taken a scratch, and he was advancing toward him at pace, that grin still on his face.

“Same every time, isn’t it, Rokurou?”

_He’s been toying with me the whole time._

It felt like being hit by a whirlwind. Shigure’s blades crashed into his Stormhowl, too fast for him to register, let alone watch or counter. Rokurou stumbled backwards, but it was too fast, too much. Shigure’s voice floated through his ears; he couldn’t even take his eyes off the blades which were pushing him backwards long enough to watch his brother’s mouth move.

“I thought you weren’t going to back down? Guess you’re not too good at keeping your oaths.”

And still he came onward, relentless. Blades started to rip through Rokurou’s skin, just enough to incapacitate him, stretch out the torture for longer. A wicked strike curled around his leg and cut through the back of his thigh, making him stumble. Another bit into his shoulder, making him drop his guard, just as another slashed across his face just under his right eye, causing blood to spurt into his vision. And the only thought going through Rokurou’s mind, with absolute certainty, was _I’m going to die._

He gathered all of his remaining strength, and tried one last thing, the only thing he could do to save his life. Almost unconsciously, he pointed his Stormhowl up at the sky, and slashed down blindly.

And it was parried and caught by two crossed short swords.

Then the short swords twisted, and his Stormhowl snapped cleanly across, broken in two as neatly as if it had been done by a master craftsman with an anvil. 

For a moment which felt like a lifetime, Rokurou stood dumbfounded, staring at the hilt and small length of broken sword in his hand. It looked so… insignificant. This was the blade he’d been given on his fifteenth birthday, the sword which was meant to be with him for his entire life, unless he managed to claim the real Stormhowl for himself. And it looked like a toy in his hand. It was broken, useless - it had failed.

Then Shigure’s fist connected squarely with his chin, and the hilt flew out of his hand as he was unceremoniously dumped to the wet ground.

He had time for a single intake of breath as he lay flat on his back, before something horribly sharp lodged up against his throat, and he could just about make out the distinctive hilt of his Stormhowl in Shigure’s fist. 

He met his brother’s eyes, and all he could see was death wearing a grin. A knee was on his chest, pressing him into the cold stone beneath him, but all he felt were shadows creeping in on him. He’d reached the moment of his own death, at his own brother’s hand, and he was shaking in fear, his guts turned to ice.

And then Shigure looked down, as if something had suddenly surprised him. A laugh burst out of him.

“Oh Rokurou, that’s just embarrassing.”

To his horror and shame, Rokurou realised that there was a growing warmth in his underwear, from where he’d wet himself in fear.

“You should’ve known better than to challenge me, Rokurou. You’re not ready. You’re not vicious enough.” Shigure leaned forward, and the blade bit against Rokurou’s throat. “And let’s face it, we both know that you never will be. You’re so emotional! Always have been, even since you were just a brat. It holds you back; you’re too hung up on all those emotions, and expectations, and fear. It’s the funniest thing!”

“Do it, then.” Rokurou rasped out the words. If he was going to die, he wanted to go now, rather than have all of his inadequacies thrown in his face first. Despite his terror, he pushed his throat against his broken blade as much as he could bear to, and snarled into Shigure’s face. “Do it!”

Shigure grinned down at him, and Rokurou closed his eyes, feeling the night wind ripple through the wet strands of his hair. He thought of this courtyard, all the times he’d spent in it. All the spatters of his own blood he’d had to mop off the flagstones. And how his lifeblood would soon sink through the gaps, and lie in the earth alongside his mother’s.

“Nah. Train harder; maybe you’ll be fun to kill one day.”

Rokurou opened his eyes in surprise, even as the hilt of his sword clattered down beside his head. Shigure pushed off from his chest with his knee, standing and walking away, and Rokurou had to pull himself up agonizingly into a position where he could see what he brother was doing.

Shigure was simply walking back into the house.

“Come back anytime, Rokurou.” Then the door slammed behind him.

He had been dismissed. Completely and utterly. He was so little threat as a challenger that he wasn’t even worth killing, not even to eliminate any future challenge. It was total, epic failure, and in his brother’s eyes, his life had roughly the same amount of value and annoyance as a flea.

 _“SHIGURE!”_ The scream burst from his chest, loud enough to wake the dead. Rokurou had never been so angry in his entire life; he blazed with it, was so engulfed in it that he could barely feel his own body. He was nothing, he was worthless, his entire life had been for absolutely nothing and never would amount to anything, how **DARE** Shigure treat him like this, he would strike back, he would have revenge, he would **KILL** and **KILL** and **KILL** , he was pathetic, he would **KILL** , he was nothing, he would **KILL** -

A curling, black thorn of rage lodged itself into his heart, and hooked itself in.

And Rokurou collapsed to the ground, as his legs gave way.

He lay there for a few moments, unaware of anything but the rain falling on to his face, splashing into his eyes and mixing with the hot tears that he couldn’t hold back any longer. Sobs racked him, just the same as they had when he was a child. Now, just as then, he couldn’t bear to give Shigure the satisfaction of seeing him completely give in to his own self-hate.

He felt as though he were in a haze, as if he were getting a fever. He could’ve laid there forever.

But he knew that he had something he needed to do.

He pushed himself to his knees, and into an uneasy stand, quietly picking up the two halves of his broken sword. He slid the metal blade into its scabbard, and attached it to his back. Then he took the hilt, knelt down on the flagstones, and pointed the broken blade at his own chest.

Not the first time he’d been on the receiving end of a Stormhowl in this courtyard. But this time, it would be of his own choosing. After all, what did he have to live for?

He was just the sixth sword in the armory. A blade that had failed. A blade that had broken.

He’d betrayed everything he stood for - the entirety of his suffocatingly strict childhood had been to instill not only fighting skills, but a sense of honour. He’d thrown away all of the sacrifices he’d made in order to have what his brother had - and he’d still failed.

The Count’s words had stung his pride, but he’d been absolutely correct. It had been his only purpose in life, to be a worthy challenger for the title of Shigure, and to keep both his personal honour and the honour of the Rangetsu clan intact. He’d failed, failed, failed. Just like he always did.

The only way he could restore some honour was to take his own life, by using the broken blade in his own trembling hands. Perhaps that had always been his true purpose and fate, to be a mere footnote in Shigure’s legend.

 _Then perhaps you need a new purpose in life_ , a dark little whisper echoed around his bruised soul. _Kill Shigure. Kill him for everything he’s done to you. Devote yourself to it, and take back your pride and worth. Take everything from him. Prove to everyone that you will be the greatest swordsman who has ever lived._

Rain dripped down the black strands of hair hanging in front of his face, like blood running down daggers. His eyes unfocused, seeing visions which swum before his eyes.

Then he reached up and put the hilt of the sword back in its scabbard, and the black, demonic thorn lodged itself firmly in the centre of his heart, waiting.

“Rangetsu.”

He spun around, snarling, ready to kill Shigure with his bare hands - and then realised that there were six of Count Capalus’s guards before him, weapons pointed directly at him.

“You’re going to come with us, now.”

***

Six days, and a miserable boat trip spent in chains later, and Rokurou had realised that Count Capalus was as good as his word.

No execution for him; nothing so merciful. Instead, he had a life sentence in the prison complex of Titania Island, the most foetid, squalid hellhole in the world, reserved exclusively for violent criminals, from which no-one had ever escaped. He would be surrounded by the most vicious and depraved people that a world named Desolation had to offer. 

And that was how he found himself being marched down towards his cell, whilst said vicious and depraved criminals jeered and wolf-whistled him. The broken remains of Stormhowl were resting in a storeroom somewhere, waiting to be reunited with him after his slow and sorry death. However long that took.

They stopped him in front of a locked cell door, and he got his first look at his new home. Not too bad: a good four by four metres, a bed, a piss pot, and even a tiny barred window with a view of a dusky moon.

Oh, and two inmates who seemed none too pleased to be sharing the bed or the piss pot.

Not that it really mattered; he hadn’t felt well since the night he’d fought against Shigure. Knowing his luck, he’d probably be dead of pneumonia in a week.

“In.” The guard was a man of few words, and none others were needed as the cell door was unlocked for him to enter. Two steps, a clang behind him, and Rokurou was inducted to his new residence.

“Hey there, roomies.” It was always best to start on a good first impression. However, Rokurou didn’t much care if he made one or not, and insolence had always been one of his strong suits. 

“Just don’t kill each other, please?” the guard’s voice came from behind him, before footsteps indicated that he’d left. 

Rokurou took that as his cue to move, walking over to one of the walls and sitting on the floor with his back to it, legs crossed as if he were simply about to start one of his meditations before sword practises. He wasn’t stupid enough to try to take the bed, though he tried not to think about what substances were on the floor, probably seeping into his hakama. Lord Capalus had at least allowed him to change out of his shredded, bloodied clothes before putting him in chains on a prison ship.

He could tell instantly that his two new friends were going to be trouble. One was leering, thin, with the air of a stray dog that had been chased off from every house in town. The other looked like a pork knuckle, with the intelligence to match.

“What’s your name, boy?” Pork Knuckle’s voice was low, dangerous.

“Rokurou Rangetsu.” From their blank looks, they hadn’t heard of his family. Of course they hadn’t; clans in the shadowy underworld preferred to go incognito.

“That’s a funny name.”

“I’m a funny guy.”

“What are you in for?” Stray Dog had decided to carry on the interrogation.

Rokurou gave him a bright smile. “I didn’t kill my brother.”

The two exchanged an unsure glance at that. 

“Just don’t get in our way, or we’ll mess up that pretty face real good,” Pork Knuckle told him in tones that were obviously meant to be threatening.

Rokurou lifted one eyebrow. “Boys, my life is sooo beyond messed up right now that you’re not even scaring me. My mom and dad got it on just so they could breed another swordsman for a lord. My brother kicked my ass every day for ten years. I’ve been brought up with family values that involve murdering everyone. Honestly, spending time with you two is going to be a hoot compared to that.”

With that, and with his adversaries sufficiently unnerved for the time being, he attempted to sleep sitting up.

***

The next evening, a scarlet light shone in through the tiny window, and Rokurou shivered on the filthy floor with his arms wrapped around his slender form, convinced that some sort of prison fever had infected him within twenty-four hours.

 _Can’t… die…_ he thought, even the words in his mind jolting and stilted. _Haven’t… killed...him...yet._ Rokurou shivered as though he were naked in the snow, hands seizing into claws which he had little control over. He felt as if every last bit of energy had been leached from him. Even worse, his right eye had started watering and itching uncontrollably, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

At least he wasn’t alone in his suffering. Pork Knuckle and Stray Dog were having their own private battles, convulsing on the bed and floor. Out of his good eye, Rokurou could see puddles of vomit on the cell floor, contributed by all three of them, drenched with the red light coming in from outside until it looked like they’d thrown up their own insides. Cries of pain coming from the other cells in the block were just about audible over the ringing in his ears, along with shouts from confused guards. 

_Got… to… get… up._

Rokurou managed to put one trembling hand flat against the ground, and gathered his strength to try to push himself up. If he didn’t, he was going to die from whatever fever this was, on the floor of a prison cell surrounded by piss and vomit. He couldn’t shame the Rangetsu name like this; he just couldn’t. 

He couldn’t lift himself by a single inch, and his arm collapsed back down to the ground.

He was practically paralysed now, breaths shallow, both eyes stuck open in a wide stare even as the right one continued to water and get worse with a white-hot burning pain.

 _I can’t die!_ His thoughts reached a fever pitch of panic, not helped when he realised that his skin was literally _smoking_. Purple flames wreathed off his form, and Rokurou could feel his own heart beating faster than any human heart ever should, thudding off his ribs. _I have to kill him! I can’t die until I kill him! I need.. to kill... my brother!_

Through all the blinding pain, confusion, and terror consuming him, a little voice from the depths of his soul spoke quietly, but in his own voice.

_You’ve become a monster._

It was the last human thought he had, as something dark exploded in his heart, shooting poison through every cell in his body in an instant, corrupting, changing with its mere touch. His eyes opened wide in shock for a split-second, his breath halted in his throat.

And then his right eye popped, and Rokurou _screamed._

Agony; nothing but agony. Everything else was scorched off the planet; there was nothing but agony, pain, suffering, white hot heat that obliterated everything in his mind. All he could hear was his own screams and the roar of pain; he was vaguely aware that his back was arched in sheer agony, so far that he thought his spine would snap, as he convulsed uncontrollably. Darkness shot out from his heart, black and purple and red, tearing through every part of him.

He silently sobbed as his voice gave out, and the pain centered on his broken eye, as if molten lava were bubbling up through the empty socket and spreading down his face. His skin on that side of his face felt like it were on fire, like obsidian flames were lovingly licking down his neck, as he felt the exquisite pain of his eye rebuilding itself, atom by atom, into something new.

He couldn’t handle the torment any more; all he wanted to do was let his mind and soul sink under the obsidian waves, where there was nothing but mindlessness. Let it all be over, and make this torture stop. He was weak; he couldn’t take this suffering any more, he couldn’t-

 _No!_ He wasn’t even sure if it was his own voice; he wasn’t even sure what his voice sounded like. Or who he was. _Fight it! Fight it! You can’t die yet!_

There was another voice, floating up from somewhere in the ravaged remains of his memory. The very words carried a sneer and a grin, and even now, it sounded like it was mocking him. _Fight harder, Rokurou!”_

That voice…

Rokurou screamed his rage at the memory of Shigure’s voice, opening his eyes for the first time and seeing nothing but red. He yelled his fury out into the void, wanted to fill the universe with it, wanted to tear down every god and dragon and ruin every town, raze every village, annihilate every landscape and bring death to anyone who faced him just to fully express the depths of his hate.

He shoved back at the pain, howled his wrath at it, fought to stop it from taking him any further. He would not lose his mind; he would not lose his anger and have it drowned in mindlessness. He would treasure it, hone it, and forge it into an obsidian blade. 

His vision cleared, and he realised that he was on his feet, his sides heaving and teeth bared, black strands of hair hanging down over his face. Everything was red; a far more intense colour than the scarlet light that had been illuminating the cell earlier. This was ruby, blood-red.

And he was in a cell with two werewolves. Two werewolves who looked to be in a frenzy, who wanted nothing but his death.

Rokurou grinned wildly.

Aware of shouting behind him - a guard, hollering _“The daemonblight took them! Get the exorcist!”_ \- he threw himself at the two of them, and started tearing with his bare nails. He tore, and ripped, and hacked, and shredded. Blood splashed against his face and he rejoiced in it with a snarl, delighted in the taste of it against his teeth. He felt new strength flowing through him, a simplicity of purpose, and he felt so… relieved.

At some point, he became vaguely aware that he was standing in a mound of fur and blood.

“Stop, daemon!”

The voice, attempting to sound authoritative, made him snap around. An exorcist, standing in the opened doorway of his cell, in a pristine white uniform.

“Stand down!” A staff was leveled at him, and he could hear the almost-imperceptible tremble in the man’s voice. He could suddenly hear it so clearly, and it sent an uncontrollable thrill through him. 

Rokurou snarled happily, and launched himself forward.

He’d gotten perhaps one step forward, when the air in front of him shimmered with a silvery light. Two steps, and the light formed into two impossibly-perfect beings, one male, one female. They were all purity and gold, with eyes that spoke of age-old wisdom.

Even through his bloodlust, new instincts kicked in, and Rokurou put on the brakes. The red colour of his vision faded, making the newcomers shine even more brightly, and he had an instant to stare at them in astonishment.

Then they both raised their hands at him.

“Ohhh, shi-”

The blast of a dual arte left his word unfinished, slamming him back into the wall of the cell, and knocking him into unconsciousness.

***

_“-hundred prisoners taken by daemonblight tonight, sir.”_

A sigh. _“How many deaths?”_

 _“Too many.”_ A nervous pause. _“What do we do with them? Will the exorcist… dispose of them all? They’re daemons!”_

_“I received a sylphjay. They’re all to be moved to the wing above the maximum security cell, or as close to it as we can get. They’ll be restrained until then, as long as the malaks can manage.”_

_But sir… why?”_

_“I don’t know, Cary!! Just do it!”_

Rokurou opened his eyes, slowly, trying to jam his senses back into his head. He quickly discovered that opening his eyes and breathing was the extent of what he could do right now.

As he struggled through the fog of a brick wall-inspired concussion, Rokurou couldn’t move a muscle; not even a twitch. He could feel the fizzing energy of an arte being used on him - paralyzation, at a guess. So that was what the voices of the guards had been talking about.

So he relaxed instead.

He didn’t really understand why, but he felt strangely fine, like a wave had gone through him. He had a memory of being plagued by a lot of emotions before, but they felt curiously absent now, like he couldn’t imagine what they’d possibly be like. Shame, guilt, sadness - he had an impression of what they’d been like to experience, but he couldn’t really apply them to himself. They’d been things that he’d felt intensely before, and now they seemed like concepts that he was familiar with, but nothing more than that. 

It was slightly weird, but also completely natural-feeling. 

In fact, if he had to describe himself as anything right now, mystically chained to the floor of a hellhole with dried blood coating him from head to toe, then it would be _happy_. He didn’t care what people thought of him. He didn’t care about getting a sword, a title, or leadership of a clan. All those things seemed pretty unimportant.

Life was simple. He would reclaim his broken Stormhowl, kill Shigure, and follow a code of honour. Those were the only things that had any importance in this world, after all. 

_Sounds good!_ Rokurou thought with an internal wicked grin, one that was fiercer than anything Shigure had ever managed.

“This one gave us some trouble. And he doesn’t look like the others.”

Rokurou swiveled his eyes towards the footsteps entering his cell as best he could. He noticed that his new eye was a different shape to the old one, slightly more rounded, but he didn’t really care.

A face bent over him, from a standing position. One of those shining, golden beings, the male one, looking down at him with dispassionate interest.

 _Hey there!_ Rokurou wanted to chirp, but his paralysis wouldn’t let him.

“Hmm,” Shiny said.

“What is he?” One of the guards he’d heard earlier, the one who was in charge. He couldn’t hide his nervousness from Rokurou’s suddenly-sensitive ears. He could hear every emotion swirling around in the man’s tone, which he thought was pretty dope, to be honest.

Shiny’s arm moved, and Rokurou could suddenly see that there was a spear in his hand. For a moment, he thought that the being was going to crack the butt of the spear into his head, but instead he felt the metal scape along the right side of his face, lifting his bangs up and away, and displaying his face for all to see.

He had a vague memory of someone else lifting his hair away to stare into his face. 

“You see the eye? The redness of the pupil, and the concentric circles of red on the sclera?”

Rokurou couldn’t, but he thought it sounded badass.

“That’s the mark of a yaksha, a type of war daemon. As is the black and red daemonblight on the skin. Even though it has not spread fully across him, that is what he is.” Another gaze directly into his eyes, as though Rokurou were a particularly interesting type of insect. “Something made him fight the physical transformation, but he is most certainly a daemon throughout. Though you may find that his mind is in better condition than most.”

So, he’d been taken by daemonblight. He was no longer human. His agony had been the process of his own transformation, from a being with emotions and soul, to an inhuman daemon with little of either. A being that would be hated, feared, and hunted down. 

_Cool_ , Rokurou thought.

“Erm… how long do they live for?”

Shiny turned around to look at the unseen questioner, locks of flowing golden hair tossing around his shoulders in perfect motion.

“They’re immortal.”

“In that case… write this down, Cary. Prisoner’s sentence raised to five hundred years. It won’t even be my great-grandchildren’s problem by then.”

For the first time, something akin to panic gripped Rokurou’s spread-eagled form. He couldn’t wait five hundred years! Shigure would be dead by then! One amber eye, and one crimson one, zigzagged in agitation. 

Shiny gave him one last pitying look, and moved out of Rokurou’s field of vision.

He’d just have to escape. But he’d wait for the right opportunity. Someone would make a mistake. Some poor, desperate creature would give him the opportunity.

When they did, he’d owe them a debt.

***

Just over a thousand years later, Rokurou was doing what he truly loved best.

Not teaching students - that was second. Maybe third. And to be honest, they’d been far and few inbetween over the centuries, as it was so rare that he found anyone worthy of learning the Rangetsu skills. Plus it wasn’t long since he’d finished teaching his latest student, one called Rose, who had some talent; that was enough for the next hundred years or so. He’d do his usual trick, and put out a rumour that he was dead; it generally gave him a good few decades of independence. 

Nah, that wasn’t nearly as much fun as fighting daemons.

He could almost hear long-dead Magilou’s voice drawling _“doesn’t fighting daemons get a little old after a millennia?”_ , but the truth was that fighting daemons never got boring for a yaksha.

He couldn’t help but grin at the daemon that he was currently fighting, as his mind casually wandered while his body twisted though the familiar forms and routines. After all, this was only a hellhound which was breathing fire at him; piece of cake. To be honest, he was only fighting it to see if you really could kill a daemon with a thousand papercuts.

He’d seen a lot in a thousand years. He’d seen continents collide, towns be founded, lands get renamed. He’d seen hundreds of thousands of challengers, and seen them all off with multiple injuries and an easygoing laugh. He’d seen Mount Killaraus erupt, while feeling the weight of a retrieved Stormhowl and Kurogane Stormquell on his back.

He’d seen a hell of a lot of dead daemons, too.

He’d changed a little, as well. His hair was as long as Shigure’s had been, making him look more like his brother than he ever had - maybe it was his subconscious, grudging nod to a worthy swordsman. It was almost as long as Velvet’s had been.

If he were being honest, and he couldn’t be anything but brutally honest, that was about it for the changes in himself.

The hellhound snarled viciously at him, backed up, aware that its time was near.

“C’mon, puppo.” Rokurou twirled his twin greatswords with minimal effort. “You can do better than-”

_The dying roar, the inhuman screech of a two-thousand year old dragon, filled his mind, even though he was nowhere near it. It reached him across the continents, across the seas. A cry of agony, of despair, and relief, which caused pain in every fibre of his daemonic being, because he knew exactly who it was, and what it meant. The dragon crashed to the ground, its mighty lifeblood gushing on to the earth, the echoes of its dying screams echoing around the mountaintops until it faded into silence._

Then his vision cleared, and Rokurou realised that the hellhound was leaping for his face, jaws open wide.

He heard a voice inside his head, shouting _“forget the pain, and move!”_. He knew that voice. He’d heard it enough times. Had heard it just a few seconds ago, crying out in mortal agony.

One colossal swipe with Stormhowl, and the hellhound crashed to the ground, minus both of its heads.

Rokurou was completely uninjured, but he lifted his face to the sky and howled, a cry of pure rage, almost touching feelings and emotions that he hadn’t had since he was human. When he was done, he simply resheathed his swords and walked away.

It didn’t take him long to walk to the little wood where he’d been camping out, where he was stashing his supplies. He barely looked at anything else - didn’t notice the lush greenery, the rays of sunshine filtering through the canopy, or his untidy bedroll.

He went straight for the bottle of sake he always kept with his things, picked it up, and settled himself on a nearby rock to pour out a cup.

He looked at the cup in his hands, at the clear liquid sloshing around the edges. It brought back memories - ones much clearer than his human ones had ever been. Times spent with family; the family he’d chosen.

The brothers and sisters he’d chosen.

A thousand years ago, he’d learnt a lot of lessons, as important as the ones he’d learnt as a toddler with a bamboo cane. He’d learnt how even a daemon could treasure people, and friendships, how he was still curious about the lives of others despite his lack of emotions, and how five strangers with their own agendas and selfish needs could come to mean more to him than the family he’d been born into. The six of them - they’d been family.

He would live on, for them, but even a big ol’ daemon could miss people. That was a lesson, too.

“I know it’s what you wanted. Guess I owe Zaveid a debt now. Sleep well, bro.” 

He took a sip, and for the first time, wished that he could feel something.


End file.
